


I Don't Care (If Monday's Blue)

by MyckiCade



Series: The Things We Knew, and a Few We Didn't [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Prompt: Rockstar, Shameless Classic Rock References, Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo Response
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:33:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They audition three potential guitarists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Care (If Monday's Blue)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Author’s Note: A quick little bit, here. This one is loaded with little classic rock-related bits. :). My hat’s off to you, each one you spot. ;).  
> P.S. Again, a year old.

_In the beginning..._

 

They don't quite know what they're doing, at first. One day, with the sounds of the Doors filtering through the stereo, they're discussing how cool it would be to be famous, to tour different continents, and sign autographs. _To play music._ They've dabbled, sure, messed around with a few numbers here and there. John's been in the school band since he was eight, and isn't half-bad. Still, they're not thinking much of it. Sherlock's singing along with Jim Morrison, John's tapping away to the beat against the arm of the sofa. It's just a normal Sunday afternoon.

By the end of the week, they're holing up in John's parents' garage, Sherlock jotting down lyrics, while John sketches out an ad for a guitarist.

“I don't even see why we need one,” Sherlock states, glancing at Harry's guitar, propped up against the wall. “Surely, it can't be that difficult to sing and play, at the same time?”

John levels him with a flat stare. “Right. Go on, then?” He nods toward the borrowed instrument. “Pick it up, and we'll run through a song.”

They make it all of thirty seconds into _Over the Hills and Far Away,_ before Sherlock is shoving the guitar away, in disgust. John can't help but cackle, in the background.

 

 

_Out of touch..._

 

They audition three potential guitarists. The first is a bloke out of their own school. He pulls up in a little sedan, dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a leather jacket, and a pair of black sunglasses that reflect the sunlight directly into John's eyes. John thinks he's a pretentious twat, right from the get.

“This isn't the one,” he complains, before the guy's even in the garage.

Sherlock silences him with a look. “You were the one who wanted one, remember.”

In response, John grits his teeth. “I said I wanted someone to play us the bloody guitar, not pose for a George Michael look-alike contest.”

In the end, the guy plays decently, but John's right. He's looking to be a face in a magazine ad, not a sturdy band mate.

The second one, well, he's too stoned to get his fingers to co-ordinate on his acoustic. He knows one song, which he fails to play, over, and over, and over again. Sherlock tosses him out of the garage within twenty minutes.

By the time the third guy pulls up – on a motorcycle, in a leather jacket, which has John rolling his eyes – they're both ready to just call the whole thing quits. Any hope they had of fulfilling their dreams has dwindled down to nearly nothing.

Then, Number Three  _smiles._ He'll never admit it, but Sherlock is a goner, right there.

“Name's Greg,” he says, this  _Greg._ He's a decade older than them, at least, but doesn't seem terribly put-off by the fact. There's an immediate, post-punk feel about him, something gritty, something  _honest._ They shake hands, and that hopeless feeling starts to disappear.

Once Greg breaks out his guitar, the feeling is gone. They offer him the job after one shared, silent look. Any man who can play  _Freebird,_ start to finish, is a man they want on their side.

 

 

_Highway run, into the midnight sun..._

 

“I did it,” Greg proclaims, walking into the garage with his arms stretched wide, a grin on his face.

John raises an eyebrow. “What happened? Catch the clap, again?” He chuckled, good-naturedly, and receives a middle finger for his amusements.

“No, you dick.” Propping his glasses on the top of his head, Greg looks right at Sherlock. Sherlock tries not to let that go straight to his knees. “I got us booked for a show.”

Sherlock blinks. “You,  _what?_ ”

Almost immediately, Greg's grin falls. “Bad move? I thought we decided we were ready?” It's been nearly four months, and, while they're certainly not ready for a sell-out crowd, they can play a damned bar. “I mean, I can call 'em back...”

“No!” John shouts, nearly jumping over his drum kit in his rush to hug the stuffing out of Greg. All right, it's less  _hug,_ and more  _you're fucking amazing, I'm so glad we found you!_ He lets go within seconds, pulling back to smile at an amused-looking Greg. “Don't you dare! We've been waiting for this. We  _need this._ ”

Greg scoffs. “You're telling me, mate? Remember, of the three of us, I'm the only one's gotta' worry about rent.”

Still in the corner of the garage, Sherlock tries to shove his discomfort aside. People. There are going to be  _people._ Oh, sure, he was fine with the  _idea_ of this whole rock star business. But, why did it have to involve  _people?_

When Greg comes over to clap a hand against his back, Sherlock startles.

“You all right?”

He nods. “Yes, yes. I'm fine.” Putting on a smile, he nods his head. “So, when do we play?”

 

 

_There I was, completely wasting, out of work and down..._

 

Of course, Greg has to be anxious to go out in front of the crowd. He's done this before, so it comes easier, Sherlock figures. The older man is practically bouncing around like a rubber ball, chatting about how much fun they're going to have, excitable in every way. Greg looks fantastic, too, there's no denying it. Form-fitting jeans, t-shirt... It's everything in Sherlock not to stare.

John, well, John is eager as hell to make something of all their hard work. The late night practices, the weekend sessions, that God damned  _B-_ he's received in Calculus. He's been giving this his all, this is it, this is going to be his  _future._ If he's going to sacrifice his grades, as well as everything else under the sun, it's going to be damned-well  _worth it._

Sherlock wants to vomit.

The venue isn't large, it isn't packed to capacity. Still, Sherlock feels the eyes of a thousand potential predators on him, waiting to jump at the first waver in his voice. To criticize. To  _mock._

They're ready. They've practiced their set for the last two weeks. He knows every word that needs to leave his lips.

If only he could get his legs to move him toward the stage.

John is busy setting up his kit, leaving Sherlock and Greg to their own devices. Said devices presently involve Sherlock dry heaving over the toilet, while Greg holds his hair away from his face.

“S'all right, kid,” Greg murmurs, moving one hand over the younger male's back. “Stage fright. We all get it, from time ta' time.”

“R-Right,” Sherlock coughs out, following it with a disgusting sniffle. “When do I g-get to see y- _you_ freaking out?”

Greg laughs, low and melodic, and Sherlock shivers. “My first show? Man, I was a wreck... Jimmy, he was the singer I was playin' with, at the time, he had to literally boot me in the arse ta' get me out on the stage.” Another chuckle bursts forth, as Greg shakes his head. “I messed up three songs,  _in a row,_ and almost managed to get us booed out.”

It takes a moment, but Sherlock finally turns watering eyes on his friend. “How the hell did you get over it?”

“Me?” Greg pauses to consider, before shrugging. “Time, really.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “So very helpful, Lestrade.” Greg cuffs him, playfully, before stepping back to let him up. Moving toward the sink, Sherlock sighs. “I don't know if I can do this,” he admits, quietly, hating himself for every syllable.

Greg steps up behind him, smiling at Sherlock's own reflection, in the mirror. “'Course, you can.” He frowns at the scoff he receives, in reply. “Look, Sherlock... I've only known you for, what? Four months, now? Almost five... But, in that amount of time, I've seen you do some pretty amazing things.” Sherlock glances back, reflection for reflection, and Greg is still smiling. “Don't doubt me, either. When I met you, you could barely work that guitar, yeah? Now, you're nearly as good as I am!”

Looking away, Sherlock fights – and fails – to hide a smirk. “No, Lestrade, I'm  _better_ than you.”

Another cuff to the head comes his way, before the warm, careful weight of Greg's arm settles over his shoulders. If Sherlock goes a little bit pink at the contact, neither says a word. “We're gonna' do all right, tonight, you and me and John.” Greg's hand wraps around the curve of Sherlock's shoulder, hugging him in a way that Sherlock has yet to consider himself completely comfortable with. A work in progress, like so many other things. “We make a damn good team.”

He smiles. “You think so?”

A grin. “I know so.”

 


End file.
